


Strong Stuff

by blueygreeny



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Boxing, F/M, Pre-Troubled Blood, Stress Relief, Stress relief through exercise (minds out of the gutter here), Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueygreeny/pseuds/blueygreeny
Summary: On an early summer’s evening, Robin lets off some steam in the office, while Strike faces worry about Joan.Set a short time before the opening of Troubled Blood.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	Strong Stuff

‘So, that’s the invoicing up to date. Just so you know, we’re thinking of changing some of the rates. Cormoran and I will be having a conversation about that in the next month or so.’ Robin took a sip of her now tepid tea and sat down on the edge of the desk. She discreetly slid a finger into the neck of her shirt to ease the strap digging into her shoulder. ‘Any questions, Pat?’

Pat Chauncey reached for her e-cig and shook her head. ‘I’ll get the hang of it, don’t you worry Robin.’ She took a deep drag of the sickly sweet vapour. ‘Though the rota programme might be trickiest. How about I work on the next unplotted week and spend ten minutes with you tomorrow checking I haven’t ballsed it up?’

‘Sure,’ Robin replied, stifling a yawn. ‘But look, it’s gone six already, time you were off. Cormoran won’t be back until late, I’ll finish here and lock up.’

Pat didn’t need telling twice. She gathered up her coat and bag and hoarsely wished Robin a nice evening as she sailed out of the door. Robin liked Pat. She could already tell she was more than capable of the office manager role Robin and Cormoran had sketched out, which would finally free Robin up from many of the admin tasks, or putting right the admin tasks that another temp had mangled. And lord knows, it would be nice to have another woman on staff. Robin’s mind drifted back to the tally of times Morris had interrupted her with a limp quip or unnecessary challenge in yesterday’s meeting. She sighed, not that Hutchins, Barclay or Strike seemed to have noticed.

She shook her head as if to wipe away the residue of resentment then gathered some papers together and slid them into the ‘Invoices - Overdue’ folder. Top of the pile was bloody Beetroot who was refusing to pay his final bill. When Robin had talked through the observations on his case, making clear that she had been the main investigator, his florid face had grown thunderous. The meeting had ended with Beetroot slamming out of the office refusing to pay ‘investigator rates for the secretary’s work’. Strike’s fluid and graphic summary of what he would like to do to his ruddy, pudgy face had helped, for a while at least.

Right, Robin thought, time to get started. The front office windows were already ajar; early summer had arrived finally this past week. Robin pushed them wider and strode into the inner office to repeat the action to the rear windows, locking the office door on her way past. Hopefully she would feel something of a breeze. Shucking her blouse, Robin then pulled a vest top out of her bag. As she slipped it over her head and over the uncomfortable sports bra she had put on this morning, she thought fleetingly of the flat in Earl’s Court. But she was still getting used to Max and he to her, so loud, sweaty workouts would wait until she had a better handle on her flat mate. Or a better handle on when he went out, which Max didn’t seem to at all currently.

With a quick shimmy, Robin’s jeans were switched for workout leggings. She scraped back her hair into a ponytail and logged onto the FirstBeStrong website. It had been Vanessa’s recommendation that had persuaded her to give the site and particularly this programme a try. Robin wanted the feeling of exhausted achievement good exercise could bring. She didn’t want to watch what she ate so carefully: her curry nights would not be given up without a fight. And dieting reminded Robin too forcefully of a dress that she had squeezed into with the same ambivalence as she had married life.

Maybe she would even sleep properly tonight.

‘The satisfaction of just...letting your fists fly, Rob...’. Vanessa had said in a surprisingly wistful tone. ‘And it comes in handy on days when the Chief Constable is being a tool as well.’

As Robin navigated to the right pages, past the introduction videos she had already watched, her phone jangled with a text from her mother. _Did you see my message earlier, love?_ As their last conversation had alternated between snide comments about Matthew and badgering Robin about visiting for her father’s birthday, Robin felt no compunction about switching her phone to silent. She then wheeled her office chair out of the way, tucked her bag under the desk and played with the angle of her laptop. Finally, she was ready to start.

The warm up section outlined the exercises and moves. The instructor was undoubtedly slick but he had a relaxed cheekiness to his delivery that was pleasantly surprising. Some stretches, squats and lunges and a gradual introduction to the range of punches followed. Robin gave herself over to the video. Before too long she had built up a short combination of jabs, hooks and steps into a fluid series of movements.

She had expected to draw some comparisons between the exercises here and the self-defence classes she had taken in the past, but as the workout progressed she realised that they actually had little in common. In those classes she had been drilled in being alert and reactive, learning how to tip the scales against an attacker and often use their apparent advantages against them. Instead, Robin was able to focus exclusively on her own body and the reassuring sense of what it was capable. There was no shadowy assailant to factor into her movements, no opponent to weigh up, no one to consider but herself. Robin’s muscles bunched and stretched, and lungs laboured in a satisfying way. The steady, swinging movements and repetition lulled her mind while her pulse climbed. As she bounced from foot to foot, the buzzing thoughts wound down. She put her discontent about Beetroot and a number of other men on standby. Slowly, a knot that Robin hadn’t been fully aware of in her shoulders began to unfurl.

The minutes ticked past. Robin swiped at some strands of hair that were now plastered to her forehead before tucking her curled fists back under her jaw. She was enjoying the rhythm, her fists moving in a regular beat while the hands of the clock advanced above her. _Jab hook reset. Jab hook reset._ Here was something similar to the running she had pushed herself to do in Masham until one day she realised she actually really enjoyed how her legs ate up the miles without conscious thought. Since moving to London she hadn’t been able to replicate it. The crowded pavements in the city put her on edge; laps of the local parks left her feeling penned in. _Jab hook reset. Jab hook reset. Jab hoo—_

A ping from the laptop and an email alert jumped up onto the screen. The sender’s name, her solicitor Judith Cobbs, immediately seized Robin’s attention and she crossed quickly to pause the video. It had been a week since Robin had last emailed her and she was overdue an update. Despite the break from the workout, she felt her heart knocking against her chest; a feeling Robin was coming to associate with all her correspondence with Judith. Her eyes were skimming for the essence of the email as soon as she brought it up in full.

‘ _...in order to clarify this with Mr Cunliffe’s solicitor, please could you advise_...but I gave you that a month ago!’ Frustration burst from Robin and in disgust she nearly slammed the laptop shut. Then the unintentionally barbed final lines caught in her throat.

A moment passed. Clouds obscured the evening sunshine and cast the office into shadow. In the light the screen threw on her, Robin looked suddenly white-faced, almost feverish after her exertions. She pushed away from the desk and paced the office in a tight circle. She had to unclench her fists to resume the video. Feet planted, guard up and jaw set, Robin listened to the flow of the workout commentary. The instructor was reaching a pitch, encouraging his unseen audience, urging Robin to dig deep, to keep at it. With an uneven breath she dived back into the combinations. The watery outline of her reflection in the back windows became her focus for each unrestrained blow she delivered.

_Jab, hook, step forward, jab jab._

_Hook, jab, step back, hook hook._

Submerged so deep in the sparring match with Matthew’s spectre, Robin failed to notice her phone silently illuminate before fading to black once again.

* * *

‘Well, I’m worried about her.’

Strike bit his lip and with effort swallowed an exasperated expletive. Lucy, like a doom-mongering chess player, was already a dozen moves ahead of him and Joan’s nebulous symptoms. He focussed on his irritation because it burned brightly, in contrast to the sly worry that had been scratching its way into his thoughts this past week. He recalled the mention of Joan’s increasingly uncomfortable bloating and how Ted had half-heartedly joked that Joan was now regularly beating him in the number of nighttime trips to the loo.

Words from that last conversation with Ted darted through Strike’s mind. ‘I’ve said this to Lucy though I know she won’t heed me, but don’t be fretting about us now, lad. We’ll get through whatever this is. Joanie is made of strong stuff. The men in our family couldn’t be doing with anything less.’ And to illustrate this perfectly Joan had shortly wrangled the phone from Ted to enquire after Cormoran’s leg, Ilsa and Nick and, pointedly, Robin.

‘Let’s wait for the test results, Luce. No sense in getting worked up when we don’t know anything yet.’ He replied, striving to pour oil on Lucy’s choppy waters and his own unease. He moved the phone to his other ear as he dug in a pocket for his cigarettes.

‘Hmmh.’ Lucy sounded unimpressed by her brother’s level of concern. Strike asked after the boys, dredging up the memory that they had been away the last weekend camping, which succeeded in mollifying and diverting Lucy.

Eventually the call ended and Strike exhaled heavily. He stopped for a second to light up and properly take in his surroundings for the first time in minutes. He was on Charing Cross Road, only a few minutes from the office and flat. The day was fine and bright but the remnants of the conversation lingered, an itch over his consciousness. The nicotine helped slightly but Strike reached instinctively for his phone again. Hearing Robin’s take on Pat’s first day would be a balm, though why that should be he didn’t examine too closely. However, her phone rang out to voicemail and a pang of disappointment assailed him. Flicking the cigarette butt away, he trudged past workers heading home and drinkers spilling from pubs and bars onto the pavements.

Strike was mentally reviewing the upcoming case load, wondering when he would be able to get down to St Mawes for a day or two, when he stepped in off Denmark Street. At least the conclusive photo of Boy Toy’s cheating today would lighten the rota. Pocketing his keys, he had climbed the first flights of stairs when his distraction was cleared aside by a tremor that ran through the building.

‘Who the fuck’s stamping?” Strike asked aloud in bafflement. As he rounded the next flight, the regular footfalls became clearer and he thought he could also make out an insistent male voice from the office. Strike sped up, wincing as he did so, but when he reached the office door he found it was locked. He silently cursed while he dug out his keys once again.

Strike’s ‘Robin?’ died on his lips, and after a second or two of his mouth hanging open, he rebuked himself and snapped it shut.

Having only taken a step into the outer office, he still had a clear view through the inner door. Next to the new partners desk, Robin was springing lightly from foot to foot while on her laptop an American man outlined the final ‘burnout’ section of a workout to a thumping soundtrack. She hadn’t heard him or the door opening and Strike was torn about his next move. He could do with getting the file, but he had no wish to startle Robin. It could wait until later.

 _‘Ready now? Back into combination in 3 - 2 - 1!’_ And Strike froze.

From his vantage point behind her, he saw Robin’s posture change and her feet settle into roughly a 12 and 3 o’clock position. In the movement of shadow as her shoulder blades kissed and the creasing of the stark black straps that disappeared into her top, he guessed her fists were tucked up near her chin. The voice telling him to stop being a pervy fuck was getting louder, but then a burst of movement silenced it. Robin was focussed on the windows beyond her while she landed a series of targeted punches on the air ahead. At the direction of the voice she smoothly transitioned into a combination that moved her forward and back. Whisps of her golden hair were haloed against the window’s light and breeze. The voice urged her on and jogged Strike out of his daze. A prickly feeling of guilt was rising in his gut. He was almost resolved on quitting the office when the tempo suddenly rocketed and his gaze snagged again. What he guessed was the workout’s finale was in progress, a punishing flurry of jabs that he could see dragged at Robin’s muscles. Each punch was punctuated by an huffed exhalation. Straining to hear, Strike caught Robin spitting out the words ‘tosser’, ‘knobhead’ and a particularly vehement ‘bell end’. He was fairly sure none of these were directed at him, but a part of him cringed to think that he was deserving of some unsavoury label.

He had turned back to the door handle when the frantic beat of the music eased off and the instructor’s voice lost it’s strident note. Strike had also lost his chance to sneak out. Robin slowed, seemingly wrung out. She took a step or two, swinging her arms and softly panting. Before she could turn, Strike combined a rap of his knuckles on the doorframe with a not exactly fake clearing of his throat. He was glad to see that while Robin blinked at him in surprise, she didn’t jump in shock.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey. You’re back early?’ Robin said unevenly, still trying to catch her breath. She reached for a small towel and felt a rush of blood unconnected with exercise.

‘Yeah, I caught Boy Toy red handed.’ He replied crossing into the inner office. ‘So, I’ll just get the file and get out of your way.’

‘Well, I’ll be clearing off soon, so you can have the office. I certainly don’t have another of those in me,’ she said weakly, collapsing into her chair while Strike rooted through the filing cabinet, eyes studiously averted. He could hear her take some gulps of water from the glass on the desk. ‘I won’t make a habit of this, by the way. Just trying to fit it in is —’

‘I don’t think after what amounted to squatting here during the Landry case, I’m likely to find fault,’ Strike cut in from under a briefly glimpsed eyebrow. ‘And speaking of that case, this office has seen it all before, though thankfully there’s less blood this time.’ He nodded towards the laptop while unnecessarily checking the papers in the file. ‘So, trying something new?’

‘Um, yeah, Vanessa recommended it. Not many classes I can regularly get to, and this is flexible,’ she shrugged and rubbed the towel absently up her neck again. Strike tore his eyes away when she threw a self-deprecating smile his way. ‘I don’t think Tyson Fury has anything to worry about.’

‘Nah, but then your style might be closer to Giant Haystacks.’

Robin’s eyes narrowed though a smile was fighting to surface. ‘I have no idea who that is, but I think you’re lucky that I’m exhausted.’

Strike grinned. Settling himself behind his side of the desk, he slid a question in while switching on his computer. ‘Boxing’s a bloody good workout and good for clearing your head. Maybe you needed that today?’

Robin paused and in a flash she wondered just how long Strike had been standing in the doorway.

‘I had an email.’ Robin picked at the skin around her thumb. ‘From my solicitor.’ Strike nodded slowly, filling in some of the blanks. Restlessly Robin began to close down the laptop in front of her. Shutting down the browser window, there was Judith’s email staring at her again.

_‘Mr Shenstone has strongly intimated that his client would be less likely to place obstacles in the way of a speedy resolution if we were able to concede that, on the point of infidelity, both parties were equally at fault.’_

This time the email didn’t cause Robin to rage, she just felt deflated.

Strike, who had noticed the sagging of Robin’s tired shoulders, spoke up. ‘I’ve got a piece of advice for your next boxing session.’

Robin looked both startled and curious. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘You’d lost your stance, at the end when I walked in,’ he tacked on hurriedly. ‘If your feet line up one behind the other, like you’re surfing, then you can’t pivot properly. You can’t put your full body behind a punch and you haven’t the base to absorb what’s thrown at you. Sounds like I’m talking shit but honestly, it all comes down to balance.’ Robin nodded with a distracted air as whatever it was on the laptop drew her eyes again. Impulsively, Strike ploughed on. ‘And in a similar way, Matthew was a bloody millstone round your neck. Once you’re shot of him completely, you’ll get your balance back and, well, then there’ll be no stopping you.’

Robin blinked. She was surprised by the direction Strike’s thoughts had taken, but even more by the intense look that accompanied it. She blinked again as if stunned by a strong beam of light. His eyes dropped fractionally, she thought maybe to her lips for a beat or two, before seeming to skim slowly down her shoulder and arm before veering off out of the open window. In the wake of that trailing, lingering glance, Robin could feel the nerves in her skin firing. Had she imagined that? Surely she must have. Since when did a look have the weight of a caress? Robin tamped down the thought. Swallowing, she remembered her workout clothes, her general sweatiness and flushed. It was the breeze on her damp skin, she told herself firmly.

‘I...I should be making a move.’ Robin said, beginning to grab her things and shove them haphazardly in her bag.

Strike’s words about balance had come back to haunt him: he was feeling distinctly off-kilter thanks to a radiant yet vulnerable Robin, and he murmured something unintelligible in reply. _What were you thinking?_ He growled inwardly. _Couldn’t leave it well enough alone, you had to go leering, didn’t you?_ He scowled a bit more at the cloudless blue sky beyond the window. A sky that wouldn’t look out of place above St Mawes, and his thoughts were tugged back there. To Ted, quietly brooding while telling others not to, and Joan bustling about with her back turned against any unpleasantness on the horizon. The sound of the zip on Robin’s bag brought him back to the room.

‘Robin.’ She turned to face him and saw a calmer face rising out of the stormy looks of a moment before. ‘You’re ... you’re made of really strong stuff. You know that, right?’

‘I ...thanks Cormoran.’ She pulled the bag strap more securely onto her shoulder and turned to the door, before he called out again.

‘And if that dickhead Matthew forgets it, your right hook should be able to remind his face.’ She laughed, catching his eye again, pleased to see the scowl slide completely from his features.

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘See you.’

**Author's Note:**

> The main inspiration behind this little fic was watching Robin juggle so many stresses and strains during TB. The poor girl can’t catch a break between all those who place emotional demands on her and work pressure. And while the Valentine’s Day outburst was cathartic, I wanted to give her a safety valve for all the stress she’s facing.
> 
> I thought going into more detail about Strike missing boxing would make this run out of control for me, but if you want to read someone doing an excellent job of writing Strike boxing, check out The Boxer by libraryv which I found when wondering who had already explored the trail of ‘I wuzza boxer. ‘Narmy mate’. 
> 
> The boxing workout that Robin does is based on a real one, but I’ve cobbled together an alternative name for the website. And Giant Haystacks was a UK wrestler in the 1970s and 80s.


End file.
